Ache
by lovesdaryl
Summary: <html><head></head>Why is Carol not her usual self? Daryl wants to know ... and maybe ... help her?</html>


He'd noticed something off about her the day before already, and it hadn't disappeared overnight. Instead, if anything, it seemed worse when he met her at the food station as he was getting his dinner after coming back from his hunt. She smiled at the people lined up for their reconstituted eggs and canned corned beef, and she made the usual small talk. But he saw, even before it was his turn and he stood right in front of her, that her heart wasn't in it.

The light in her eyes that he loved so much, the light that carried him through the days when his past weighed him down and his demons were loud, was missing. To anyone who didn't know her as well as the surviving members of the Atlanta group and the Greene family did, she probably looked just fine, and her fake smile and banter would be enough for them.

But he had known her for almost two years now. They had lived together on the road through a hard winter. They had shared hardships that had been unimaginable before the world as they'd known it had ended. They had helped each other through bad times and had each others' backs. He couldn't just look on while she was suffering.

Once the line came to an end, he polished off his plate with two last, large mouthfuls and returned to the counter where she was still standing, freely and generously as was her wont offering her service, time and kindness to the people living here with her. As he got ever closer, he watched her continue the show she had put on for the day and hoped that nothing that he had or hadn't done was the reason for the sadness behind her smile.

When he stood before her again, he handed her his plate and fork, asking: "Ya free now? Sure someone else can do these last three people lined up behind me?" When she looked at him in surprise he felt compelled to add a reason for his unusual request. "Day was beautiful, care to take a walk around the yard before it's all dark?"

To his complete surprise, her face fell at his words, but she did turn to the woman standing next to her and, after a brief, hushed exchange, nodded her thanks, wiped her hands on the rag lying next to her on the counter and then stepped around it to join him on his side of it. Frowning because of the sad look on her face, he secured his crossbow on his back and walked toward the exit of C next to her.

Once they were outside, she heaved a deep sigh and looked up at the flaming sky. Sneaking a glance at her, he softly asked: "Wanna talk?" As if amazed at his own courage, he looked away again immediately, studying the colorful clouds as if he'd never seen a sunset.

She, too, looked surprised at his boldness for just a moment, but took it in stride. "What makes you think there's something to talk about?" she asked.

"Ya haven't been yerself these days", he mumbled, watching his worn boots as they kicked at the gravel of the yard. "Ya been doin' and sayin' all the right things, but ... Somethin's not right. Somethin's botherin' you. Makin' you sad."

Some of the sadness in her eyes disappeared at his statement, and he raised a questioning eyebrow. She gave him a smile, and he was relieved to see that some of the light was back. "You may think that you're no good at all these people things", she began, "but you're still observant, and of all of these people -" she gestured back toward the prison " - you are the only one who cares enough to ask. I'd say you're good at this, Daryl Dixon."

He was also observant enough to notice when someone was trying to avoid a question. "So? Ya don't wanna talk about it? What good was asking, if ya don't wanna talk?" He hadn't been out for a half-assed compliment, he'd wanted to help her get whatever was weighing her down off her chest. Apparently, it was not to be.

He had either mistaken the nature of their relationship, overstepped the boundaries she'd set around herself for him. Good for her. He was a Dixon, after all, and she'd only get burned by him anyway. Or he had misinterpreted all her signals and she really didn't want to talk, which was just as likely as option A. He wasn't famous for his interpersonal skills, after all.

She heard the disappointment in his voice, and she knew she'd hurt him by refusing him like this. With another look up at the darkening sky and the fading colors she turned back toward the prison and started walking up to the door into their cellblock. He didn't push her to talk as they stepped through the door into the silence of C. People tended to remain seated after dinner to talk about their day and they had the block mostly to themselves.

Her steps took them to her cell almost automatically, and he hesitated at the door, looking unsure of himself. She wanted to ditch him here without another word, or what? She'd just wanted an escort back in? He nodded at her, his chest constricting once again at how sad she looked, and was starting to turn away from her when she finally spoke. "I though you wanted to know why I was sad. Don't you want to come in?"

His eyes widened slightly before he stepped into her cell, looking about himself as if he'd never seen it or been in it, as if to make sure he wouldn't swipe porcelain figurines or some shit like that from carved wooden cabinets as he grabbed hold of his crossbow, making sure it wouldn't swing around and bang into the bare, rough, whitewashed wall.

She sat down on the edge of her cot after toeing off her shoes and pushing them under it just far enough to be out of the way. He remained standing in the middle of her cell, still unsure about how to act and what to say. He really didn't have any experience in the comforting department and was afraid he'd fuck this up and alienate her with his strange behavior.

Then she surprised him by patting the thin mattress with one hand, right next to her, and he frowned for a moment before catching on. His heartbeat picked up a notch as he sat down beside her, swinging his crossbow down from his back to lean against his leg, tip down. When he dared to glance up at her, his heartbeat almost deafeningly loud to him, he found her looking at the wall straight in front of her, the expression on her face the saddest one yet over these last few days. His breath caught in his throat as her heartache threatened to overwhelm him. What the hell had happened?

Then she spoke, and despite his excellent hearing he had to strain to understand her words, her voice hushed and laced with a deep, aching, palpable sorrow that broke his heart all over again. Just the tone of her voice, reading a phone book, would have told him what she was thinking about.

Who she was thinking about.

"Today is Sophia's birthday."

He never questioned the validity of her statement. Their last means of reliably measuring time had been lost with Dale and the watch that he'd used to wind daily at exactly the same time. Calendars, newspapers, cell phones, radio, any kind of media, really, that had helped keep track of time before the world ended, had all ceased to exist.

But it never occurred to him to question a mother's bone-deep knowledge about the day she had given birth to her only child.

No answer was required, really.

He tensed for just a fraction of a moment before scooting up closer to her and putting his arm around her, holding her, wordlessly, as she silently cried into his chest.

Sorry. I'll be good again next time. Promise.


End file.
